"Spindler, Erica - See Jane Die" - читать интересную книгу автора (Spindler Erica)

Detective Stacy Killian surveyed the scene before her: the lushly appointed hotel room; the victim on the bed; her partner Mac McPherson talking with the coroner's deputy; the police photographer and criminalists moving about, doing their thing.

The call had come at high noon, cutting short lunches. A few of the guys had simply packed up their meals and brought them alongЧa greasy combination of burgers and fries or sandwiches from home. They now stood just beyond the established perimeter, finishing them off. A few looked pissed. The others, resigned.

Murder victims had no sense of timing at all.

The scent of the food hung heavily in the hallway, and with perverse enjoyment Stacy imagined the hotel management holding their noses in outrage and offended sensibilities. A stiff in a guest room was one thing; fast food in the hallway quite another.

Stacy had zero patience with the stratosphere-sucking set.

Several people nodded in her direction as she stepped into the room. She returned their greeting and started toward her partner, her feet sinking into thick, putty-colored carpeting.

Stacy moved her gaze over the opulent interior, taking in details: the fact the heavy drapes were pulled tightly shut; the tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries and split of champagne on the small Queen Anne-style desk near the window; the spray of fresh flowers beside it.

The arrangement of irises and lilies couldn't compete with the scent of death. The body sometimes voided with the cessation of life, particularly when that end came suddenly and violently. Stacy wrinkled her nose, though she didn't try to avoid the smell, a common mistake of rookies. Within a few minutes, as her olfactory glands fatigued, she would become accustomed to the smell.

At the worst scenes, ones where the body was in an advanced stage of decompositionЧor even worse, when the body had been submerged in warm waterЧthe smell was so intense it could not be overcome, even with the help of a smear of Vicks below the nose. The smell of those corpses inundated everything, even the hair shafts. Every homicide detective kept lemon shampoo and a change of clothes in their locker.

She stopped at the closet. She took a pair of latex gloves from her jacket pocket, fitted them on, then slid open the mirrored door and peered inside. A taupe-colored woman's suit and white silk blouse hung there. Very stylish. Very expensive. She checked the label. Armani. On the upper shelf sat a pair of brown-suede, low-heeled pumps. Also very expensive.

"Hey, Stacy."

She turned to Mac and nodded in his direction. In his early thirties, Mac had a quick smile and puppy-dog eyes. He had transferred over from Vice a few weeks ago and been assigned to partner her.

One of the most perilous and dreaded assignments on the force, according to her former partners. They and a number of the other guys referred to her as a ball-busting, frigid bitch. The biggest one in the DPD.

That title had long since lost the power to bother her. Fact was, in the boys club that was the DPD, women were tolerated. At best. A woman had to fight to establish her place within the ranks. She did it by being smart, tough and a hard worker. And developing a thick skin, fast. To most of these cowboys, women fell into four categories: vies, perps, pieces of ass or ball-busters.

Given the choices, she was more than happy to be labeled the latter.

Besides, she was a good cop who got the job done. Even her ex-partners would agree with that.

Mac ambled across to stand beside her. "Where've you been? Party's in full swing already."

"She was waiting for her nails to dry," called one of the crime scene techs, a jerk named Lester Bart. "Happens all the time."

"Fuck off," she replied, unfazed.

"Truth hurts, babe."

"What's going to hurt is me kicking your ass. And if I break a nail doing it, then I'm really going to be pissed."

Snickering, the tech went back to dusting for prints. Mac motioned to the taupe suit. "Nice threads."

Stacy didn't reply. She turned and crossed to the bathroom. He followed.

"You don't talk much, do you?" he said.

"No." She moved her gaze over the interior. A single travel tote sat on the counter. None of the towels had been used; the complimentary bath products sat untouched on a small mirrored tray.